


All Hail The Panties Queen

by wearing_tearing



Series: Stilinski Custom Cakes [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Anal Sex, F/M, Lingerie, M/M, Oral Sex, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-22 01:20:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/604252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearing_tearing/pseuds/wearing_tearing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jackson chokes on his own spit when he gets home a day later to find Lydia standing in the kitchen and staring at a red velvet cake - the words <em>all hail the panties queen</em> written on it - with a fond smile on her face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Hail The Panties Queen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [casanovak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/casanovak/gifts).



> HAPPY HOLIDAYS EVERYONE!!! :D
> 
> and please read the end notes, they're important ~
> 
> **i do not give permission for any of my works to be added to or shared on other websites such as goodreads.**

Stiles thinks that the day Lydia Martin and Laura Hale meet is going to be the worst day of his life.

He’s not kidding.

Stiles thinks it’ll be be like that week he gets the flu and can’t suck Derek’s dick or bury his face in Derek’s ass because all the snot gets in the way and he can’t breathe, but multiplied by ten.

And he has no one to blame but himself if that happens.

And by that he means Laura and Lydia meeting, not him getting sick with the flu and not being able to have sexy times.

Or it’s all going to be Lydia’s fault, really.

Because after years and years of friendship he’s long learned that whatever Lydia wants, Lydia fucking _gets_.

-

Lydia Martin is a fucking _goddess_.

And Stiles is not just saying that because of her flawless strawberry blonde hair and cherry chapstick-slicked lips and sweet smile and dimples and great fucking rack.

He’s saying that because she’s gorgeous and smart and absolutely fucking _terrifying_ and can probably destroy somebody’s entire life in fifteen seconds if she puts her mind to it.

So when Lydia corners him one afternoon after she comes back from taking over the world or terrorizing children or emasculating Jackson and tells him she wants to have dinner with him and the Hales, Stiles sighs, curses the heavens, and agrees.

This is what he’s been dreading since he started dating Derek.

The moment their worlds would collide.

And not in a good way.

He knows this is going to be a bad idea.

And that it’s going to come bite him in the ass later.

Because this is his _life_ and this is _Lydia_ and if there’s one thing he knows is that when you mix the two together he is _fucked_.

And not in the good way where he _gets_ fucked and there’ll be orgasms and some part of Derek’s body – or parts, or sometimes toys, or food, or that one time with the handcuffs – involved.

So he casually mentions it to Derek a few days later when they’re fucking.

Because Stiles kind of hopes that Derek will be too out of it to really think about what he’s agreeing to, and that he’ll just moan or gasp or groan out a _yes_ and then deal with his sex-induced decision making skills later.

And in one of the best moments of Stiles’ life, it turns out Derek does have the strength to hold Stiles up against a wall while he fucks the shit out of him. 

It’s fucking _awesome_.

Not even the way Stiles’ head hits against the wall every other time Derek snaps his hips too hard is enough to put a damp on how fucking _amazing_ being pressed up against a wall by Derek’s sweaty chest and arms and his fucking hands _is_.

Stiles is pretty sure he’ll never be able to look at plain walls again without getting a semi.

“Derek,” Stiles gasps. “I need- Oh _shit,_ yeah do that again.”

What he needs is to fucking _concentrate_.

He needs to concentrate on asking Derek to go out to dinner with Lydia instead of the feeling of Derek’s cock in his ass and the way Derek keeps biting and licking at his neck and how Derek’s chest brushes against his nipple rings and it feels fucking _glorious_ and how all he can think about is that he has the _best_ ideas and everyone should always listen to him because wall sex is fucking _perfection_.

And that they should do it _all the time_.

Forever.

Please.

“Derek,” Stiles tries once again, biting down on his lower lip and groaning when Derek moves from his neck to bite at his earlobe.

Stiles knows what Derek is trying to do. He’s trying to make Stiles stop talking and he knows that whenever he bites down on Stiles ear or sucks his earlobe into his mouth Stiles turns into a complete and utter fucking _mess_.

Because Derek has this thing where he thinks that if Stiles still has the brain capacity to talk to him during sex, it means he’s not being fucked hard enough.

Stiles is usually all up for it - Derek trying to shut him the fuck up - but right now he has something _important_ to say.

Something important that Derek needs to agree to without thinking too much about it.

So Stiles moves the hand he has on the back of Derek’s neck down to his chest and scrapes his nails lightly over Derek’s right nipple, smiling wickedly when Derek gives a whole body shudder and his thrusts falter a little.

And Stiles takes that moment to fucking _concentrate_ and say what needs to me said.

And hopes for the best.

“Lydia wants to have… dinner with… us and your family,” Stiles pants against Derek’s ear.

As soon as the word “family” is out of Stiles’ mouth he wishes he could swallow them back. 

Because Derek _stops moving_ and now Stiles doesn’t have Derek’s cock hitting his prostate or his dick sliding against the skin of Derek’s stomach or Derek’s teeth on his pulse point and his tongue on Stiles’ collarbone and that is _wrong_. And Stiles makes a whining noise at the back of his throat because this is the _complete opposite_ of what he was going for.

“Why did you stop?” Stiles complains, bringing his hands up to Derek’s shoulders and shaking him a bit. “I don’t want you to stop.”

Stiles thinks he might be pouting a little.

He doesn’t fucking care.

All he cares about is Derek’s dick in his ass and how it’s _not_ fucking him to death.

Death by dick.

Stiles thinks there are worst ways to go.

“You just brought up my family during sex,” Derek says and scowls at him. “You’re lucky I’m still hard.”

Stiles rocks himself back into Derek to show him that he’s _still_ hard and that he’s not fucking _moving_ and he closes his eyes and moans when Derek presses him hard against the wall, because fucking _finally_.

Let’s get this fucking show on the road.

And then snaps his eyes back open because Derek stops moving and this is not how Stiles saw this entire conversation going. And now he doesn’t even have the leverage to fuck himself into Derek’s cock like he wants to.

“Did you not hear the part where I told you _not to stop moving_?” Stiles glares.

Derek raises an eyebrow at him.

“What I heard was you asking me something during sex and hoping I’d be too out of it not to say yes.”

Stiles opens his mouth and closes it back up.

Because that’s exactly what he did.

And then he curses the heavens for Derek knowing him so fucking well and figuring him out.

And then he clenches his muscles around Derek hoping to distract him again.

It doesn’t work.

“Stop it,” Derek pinches him in the ass. “And ask me again like a _normal person_.”

Stiles doesn’t know what part of all of _this_ and asking questions like _a normal person_ involves it being during _sex_ and while he has _a dick up his ass_ , but he decides not to mention that.

Because he’s afraid that instead of not moving Derek will pull out, and this was going all kinds of amazing before Stiles decided to open his fucking mouth and he doesn’t want the wall sex to stop more than it already has.

So instead he huffs and pouts and says, “Lydia wants to have dinner with us and your family.”

“I don’t see a question there,” Derek points out.

Stiles shakes his head, because Derek doesn’t _understand_. 

“This is Lydia,” Stiles explains. “If she tells you to do something, you do it.”

“I don’t have to do anything,” Derek says in his best impression of a sulky five-year-old.

Stiles tries not to laugh.

And then he tries not to think about Derek like a five-year-old when they’re having sex because that is _not_ an okay thing to do while you have a dick up your ass.

A dick that’s not _moving_.

But still.

“If you like fucking me then you really do,” Stiles tells him, making a point by clenching around Derek again. “Because if we don’t have dinner with Lydia and your family she’s going to fucking kill me and you’ll never have the pleasure of having my tongue up your ass ever again.”

The tongue-in-ass comment is much more for Stiles’ benefit than Derek’s, because as much as Derek fucking _loves_ getting rim jobs from Stiles, Stiles _lives_ to have a taste of him. To lick him up and tongue him open and leave him panting and groaning and spit slicked until he spills all over himself.

It’s no secret that Stiles fucking _loves_ Derek’s ass.

He thinks half the reason he’s even _with_ Derek to begin with is because of how fucking _amazing_ his ass is.

It’s a problem, really.

Stiles doesn’t give a fuck.

Derek’s ass is _great_.

All Derek does is blink at him and then narrow his eyes, “You better make it up to me.”

Stiles doesn’t even have the time to assure Derek that _yes I’ll fucking make it up to you_ before his head hits the wall again, this time harder than before because he has the suspicion Derek is trying to fuck him into submission or trying to teach him a fucking lesson by every snap of his hips or something.

Stiles can’t do anything but hold the fuck _on_.

And moan.

And pull at Derek’s hair.

And fucking _love_ every minute of it.

And when Derek brings a hand up to tug at one of his nipple rings and then down to wrap around his cock and jerk him in time with his thrusts as he sucks on his earlobe until Stiles comes, Stiles doesn’t really have the energy to be mad at him about it.

That is until all the endorphins go away and all he’s left with is Derek’s come running down his legs and the worst fucking headache he’s ever had.

A headache that’s still not worse than the impending dinner.

Because he _knows_ nothing good will come out of having Lydia and Laura in a room together.

Except for the fact that he fucking _doesn’t_ and he ends up being proven wrong in the best way possible.

Because this is his _life_ and this is _Lydia_ , and if there’s one thing he knows is that they both _love_ the chance to make him swallow and then choke on his own words and prove to him how he knows absolutely _nothing_ about anything at all and that he should just give up and accept that they’re always right.

Because most of the time they really fucking are.

But, as Derek says, hopes springs eternal.

-

They go out to a fancy Italian place because this is Lydia and she never does anything half-way, thank you very much.

Stiles is forced to put on a _suit_ and a fucking _tie_ and if Derek didn’t look so fucking hot dressed the same way he would complain until his tongue fell out.

What he ends up with, though, is a mouth full of Derek’s cock and come running down his chin and into his shirt and Derek looks so blissed out and _gorgeous_ with his cheeks flushed and mouth parted and eyes dark that all Stiles can do is shove a hand down his pants and get himself off all over the floor.

And Derek’s shoes and pants.

And then they have to change because he doesn’t think Lydia will appreciate them showing up with come stains on their clothes.

When they get to the restaurant a little bit late Lydia just stares at them like she knows exactly what they did and how they did it and Stiles absolutely does _not_ blush.

He doesn’t.

He also pointedly ignores the look on Laura’s face which is a cross between disgust and smugness.

It doesn’t look good on her.

“Where’s Jackson?” Stiles asks, mostly because he doesn’t want to fall into a false sense of security where he thinks Jackson isn’t here and then he shows up out of fucking nowhere and ruins the entire night.

“Jackson is…,” and suddenly Stiles really regrets asking the question because when Lydia hesitates to answer is usually because Stiles is about to be traumatized for life. “Jackson’s tied up at the moment.”

Lydia smiles.

Laura laughs.

Derek shifts uncomfortably in his seat and gets this constipated look on his face.

It would be funny, but Stiles is busy swallowing puke back down to laugh about it.

They sit at the table and order wine and Stiles takes a moment to thank the heavens that Peter is out of town on business and can’t make it to dinner. He’s glad he doesn’t have to deal with his attempts at flirting and bad touch while Lydia and Laura think of a plan to destroy his and Derek’s life. He’s also not sure how Lydia would react to his creepiness – whether she would embrace it in an attempt to make Stiles’ life worse or start to plot Peter’s demise.

He hopes for the latter.

And he also hopes she includes him in whatever fucked up way she comes up with to fuck Peter over.

“I can’t believe it took us this long to meet each other,” Lydia says to Laura.

Stiles fights the urge to roll his eyes because the only reason she hasn’t met Laura yet is because Lydia absolutely fucking _refuses_ to stop by the parlor. It’s like the place is beneath her, which Stiles thinks it’s really fucking unfair considering he knows all about the secret trips she used to make to a sex shop two towns over Beacon Hills while they were still in high school to buy a double-stuffed dick, a tail plug, and strawberry-kiwi flavored lube.

He doesn’t tell her that, though, because he values his life.

And his balls.

And the way Derek likes to tug at them while he’s giving Stiles a blowjob sometimes.

And he also has no interest in knowing what the fuck Lydia decided to do with all of that.

And if Jackson’s involved in it.

Stiles chokes on his wine and really wishes he had some kind of control over what his brain does and thinks sometimes.

“Derek doesn’t like to socialize,” Laura shrugs, earning a glare from Derek. “That doesn’t explain Stiles, though.”

“Stiles is afraid we’ll come together in our superiority as women and make his life a living hell,” Lydia says, smiling brightly.

And this is what makes Lydia _horrifying_. It’s like she lives inside your fucking _head_ and she knows all your secrets and plans and what you’re thinking and about the love you have for Say Yes to the Dress and French fries dipped in ice cream and your boyfriend’s ass.

“Is this why you brought the subject up during sex?” Derek turns and whispers to him, looking all kinds of horrified.

“Now you get me,” Stiles nods his head.

The dinner goes on as expected, with Lydia and Laura telling embarrassing stories about Stiles and Derek as if they’re not even there and bonding over how fucking _majestic_ and _evil_ they both are.

The only good thing that comes out of the entire dinner is Laura telling about the time when Derek was six and covered himself in paint and glitter and ran around in the woods completely naked saying he needed to go back to his _homeland_ with the _fairies_ because they weren’t mean like Laura and made him wear makeup.

Derek looks fucking _pissed_ at Laura, and Stiles doesn’t know whether to coo at him or help him commit murder.

He settles for laughing.

And gets a punch in the thigh for it.

Stiles thinks it might bruise.

He doesn’t fucking care.

But then Lydia decides to tell everyone about that time in kindergarten when Jackson told Stiles that glue was actually chapstick and Stiles accidentally glued his mouth to his favorite teddy. 

Stiles is mentally preparing himself to what this friendship might bring him, but all he can really think about is that now Lydia has the power to tell Laura about that time in their senior year in high school when Stiles lost a bet and had to dress up as Princess Leia for Halloween.

As much as it pains him to admit, he does not look good in gold.

Or in a bikini.

At all.

And Lydia has pictures.

Incriminating pictures.

When they leave the restaurant, Derek has this shell-shocked expression and his face is pale, and Stiles has to take the keys of the Camaro from him and drive them back to Derek’s apartment so they don’t crash on the way there. And also so Derek’s brain can reboot and accept that now that Laura and Lydia are friends his life will never ever be the same.

And not necessarily in a good way.

Stiles feels kind of bad for letting Derek meet Lydia without warning him about how fucking _terrifying_ she is, but he figures he’s entitled to since he has to be around Erica all day.

Derek doesn’t snap out of it until Stiles sits him on the couch and rubs circles on his back.

“This is the end of life as we know it, isn’t it?” Derek asks him.

Stiles only nods.

Because it’s true.

And then he kisses him and pushes him back against the couch and pops his pants open and dick free. 

Derek looks kind of dazed and confused like he has no idea what the fuck just happened, and he groans impossibly loud when Stiles licks at his balls while he wraps a hand around Derek’s dick, jacking him hard and fast before he lifts his head up and swallows his cock down.

Since they started dating Stiles has perfected the art of deep-throating, and he’s fucking _good_ at it, so he relaxes and breathes through his nose and let’s Derek fuck his mouth, moaning around him every time Derek’s dick hits the back of his throat.

He fucking _loves_ this, the feeling of Derek fucking his mouth, how he gets a hand on Stiles’ hair and moves him like he wants to, how he sometimes brings his hand up to the side of Stiles’ face, pressing a finger against the corner of his lips and feels himself slipping in and out of Stiles’ mouth.

But what has Stiles tripping over the edge is when Derek pulls out and comes all over his face, jizz running down his chin and to his neck.

Stiles should probably stop coming in his pants like a fucking teenager, but as Derek tugs at his hair until he gets up from his place on the floor and straddles Derek’s legs, and then proceeds to lick his face clean, stopping to kiss and bite at his lips, he doesn’t fucking _care_.

“At least Peter wasn’t there,” Stiles says as he pulls back after his tongue bath, trying to lighten the mood.

“Thank fuck for that.”

-

Stiles and Derek’s sex life is fucking _amazing_ , okay?

They fuck regularly, and hard, and in various different positions – like the time Stiles rode Derek’s dick while Derek sat in one of the leather couches in the parlor when it was closed, or that time when Derek gave Stiles road head while they were driving to go have dinner with Laura and Stiles almost crashed the car, or when they went to see The Amazing Spiderman and Stiles got a boner for Andrew Garfield’s ass in tight spandex and Derek shoved his hand down Stiles’ pants and jerked him off in an almost empty and dark room and they almost got caught and Stiles had to clean himself up with napkins.

Stiles thanks the heavens every time he gets to see the way Derek’s face looks like when he comes, and that he’s the one that gets to do that with him, to him, and that he wishes this would continue on for-fucking- _ever_.

But as much as Stiles loves the way their sex life is, it still doesn’t mean he’sis not up to change things a little bit.

Because Stiles has a thing for _lace_.

It doesn’t matter if it’s in a girl or a guy or in himself.

He just _likes_ and gets _hard_ for it.

The way the material stretches over someone’s skin, how it feels under his fingers, and the taste of it under his tongue.

He fucking _loves_ it.

Stiles also has a thing for Derek’s ass.

And how it looks on tight jeans and black boxer briefs, the way the muscles clench under his hands whenever Derek is fucking him into oblivion, and especially the way it tastes whenever Stiles gets his tongue on him.

So it’s really not a surprise when Stiles gets the idea to join his two favorite things together.

He doesn’t really know how Derek will react to this, but he really fucking hopes it will be an enthusiastic _fuck yes_.

And then with all his clothes coming off.

So he calls Lydia.

Because if there’s anyone in his life who really fucking knows where to buy the best lingerie in the whole city, it’s her.

“Are you finally telling Derek about your love for lace?” Lydia asks him before he even gets a chance to say _hello how are you_.

“How the fuck can you possibly now that?” Stiles asks, incredulous.

“I’m Lydia,” she says, and Stiles can picture the way she rolls her eyes at him and flips her hair. “And Laura told me about how you got your nipples pierced just so Derek could have fun with them. I figured you’d be up to getting kinky in bed pretty soon after that.”

“We’re already kinky, okay?” Stiles says, voice loud. He immediately regrets it when he hears a laugh that’s definitely not Lydia’s on the other side. “Laura’s there, isn’t she?”

“And you’re on speaker,” Lydia says.

“I knew introducing the both of you would only bring disgrace and darkness to my life,” Stiles sighs.

“You’ll be thanking us after you get to see Derek’s ass stretching the lace,” Lydia says, and she’s so fucking _right_ Stiles only tells her to meet him at the mall in thirty minutes, threatens to fuck Derek in Laura’s chair at the parlor if she so much as _breathes_ a word about any of this to anyone, and then hangs up on them.

And that’s how, two weeks before Christmas, he finds himself going through red lace panties in a lingerie shop with Lydia.

He doesn’t have a color in mind when he gets here - only that it has to be lacey - but as soon as he sees them, the image of Derek in one of his tight red shirts as he balances a sketchbook on his knees and draws comes to Stiles’ mind. Soon they’re being replaced by thoughts of Derek on his hands and knees, ass up in the air and covered by red lace, or Derek sprawled on top of the bed with his dick trapped under it, stretching the fabric.

Stiles thinks about that and his absolutely does _not_ get a hand in his pocket to discretely adjust himself.

“Stop touching yourself in public,” Lydia hisses as she appears behind him.

“I wasn’t-” Stiles stops at the look Lydia gives him. “It’s not my fault he’d look really fucking hot in them, okay?”

“I know,” Lydia nods. “Jackson looks good in the light blue ones.”

Stiles throws up a little bit in his mouth.

Lydia just smiles sweetly and holds out a pair of dark red cheeky lace panties for him to look at.

“Laura said he loves red,” Lydia tells him. “On him _and_ on you.”

Lydia struts away and after staring at the lace for full three minutes and having to think of Boyd playing with Erica’s nipples to keep his dick from getting hard, Stiles leaves the store as the proud owner of a new pair of panties and kind of traumatized for life.

-

Stiles holds out giving the panties to Derek until three days before Christmas.

That’s mostly because he’s fighting an internal battle of getting hard just thinking about it or wanting to throw up imagining Derek’s reaction to it.

It’s not a good way to live.

And it makes his balls hurt because of all the sexual tension.

So he caves.

And fucking hopes for the best.

Otherwise he’s not sure how he’s going to live this one down.

Stiles is waiting for Derek to finish his shift at the shop before coming up to his apartment. These days whenever Stiles stops by and Derek is working, Derek just gives him his keys and tells him to go up and make himself comfortable if he gets bored of watching everyone tattoo people.

Making himself comfortable actually means getting naked and on the bed, but no one needs to know that.

Usually Stiles stays around and helps everyone with booking appointments, bringing cups of whatever to clients who get dizzy or ill, or massaging Derek’s shoulders after he finishes inking someone up.

He’s a fucking fine assistant, if he says so himself.

And he gets the _best_ kind of payment there is.

That payment being him getting fucked by Derek - or him fucking Derek, it doesn’t matter, really - _senseless_ whenever he fucking wants.

It’s _heaven_.

But today he’s too fucking nervous to even _look_ at Derek, let alone touch him in any way. And Laura keeps snickering at him like she knows _exactly_ what he’s thinking about, and Stiles curses the heavens and the day Lydia and Laura became friends.

He _knew_ it would be a terrible horrible thing to happen to him.

Stiles places the bag with the panties on top of the coffee table, sits on the couch, and doubts himself and this whole thing about fifty fucking times as he stares at it.

Just as he’s about to pick up the bag and throw it away because there’s _no fucking way_ Derek will agree to this, the door to the apartment opens and Derek comes in.

Derek just stares at Stiles and raises an eyebrow. Stiles looks between him and the bag in his hand and back at him again with wide eyes and cheeks flushed.

“Uhm…” Stiles trails off.

Derek still doesn’t say anything, and it’s like Stiles is back to the first day they met. He feels kind of dazed and really fucking turned on, but he’s mostly terrified and hoping not to make a fool of himself.

And fuck up their entire relationship.

“Are you just going to stand there and look like I caught you with a hand in the cookie jar?”

Stiles shakes his head and stands up straight, clutching the bag tightly to him.

“Are you going to tell me what’s in the bag?” Derek asks, eyebrow still up.

Stiles thinks Derek mostly does the whole eyebrows’ dance and staring just because he likes to watch Stiles _squirm_.

So of course he blurts out, “It’s a pair of lace panties.”

Stiles sometimes wants to punch himself in the face _really fucking hard_.

Because this is _not_ how he thought this was going to go.

He had a _plan_ and this plan did not involve him blurting things out and blushing and embarrassing himself.

But this is his _life_ , so, you know, _fuck him_.

Derek only blinks and tilts his head to the side, as if considering what he just heard.

“Panties?”

Stiles licks his lips and nods, not really wanting to open his mouth and fuck this all to hell.

If he’s being honest with himself, he’s feeling a little hopeful right now. Derek hasn’t said anything negative about it, so maybe he’s not that contrary to the idea of wearing women’s underwear.

“Can I see them?” Derek asks, taking a step forward.

Stiles extends his arm and holds the bag out to Derek, who takes it, opens it, and pulls out the red lace. 

Derek is not even wearing them and Stiles’ dick already twitches in his boxers, letting Stiles know he’s _totally_ on board of the Derek In Panties train.

Stiles fights the urge to whimper.

He doesn’t think he wins, because Derek looks up from the panties and back to him with a small smirk playing on his lips.

“Who do you want in this?” Derek asks, voice low.

Stiles is pretty sure he just swallowed his fucking tongue, because _holy shit_ Derek is considering this. He’s actually considering wearing panties or having Stiles in them and he’s pretty sure he died and went to fucking _porn heaven_ and he never wants to leave ever again.

No one can make him.

They _can’t_.

“Stiles?”

“You,” Stiles says, and shakes his head. “I want you in them, if you’re comfortable with that. Otherwise I can just wear them, really. Either way is fine with me. More than fine with me. It’s fucking great, actually.”

Derek looks to the panties and then back at Stiles before reaching a hand to the back of Stiles’ neck and crashing their mouths together. Stiles is too stunned to respond as Derek fucks his tongue into Stiles’ mouth, biting down at his lower lip and sucking at it gently. And then he pulls back, turns on his back, and walks to the bathroom.

Stiles is still trying to figure out what the fuck just happened a few minutes later when Derek steps out wearing only the pair of dark red lace cheeky panties and a faint blush on his cheeks.

Stiles’ brain short-circuits.

That’s it.

He’s fucking _done_.

Derek Hale in panties _killed_ him.

And he’s not even a little bit sad about it.

Because Derek in red lace panties is fucking _mouth-watering_ and he’s pretty sure that nothing in his life will ever be sexier than this.

Nope.

It’s _impossible_.

Stiles can’t even be bothered with the way he practically runs from his place in front of the couch to where Derek is standing and drops to his knees in front of him.

He’s being led around by his dick and it’s _awesome_.

Derek is already hard, the lace stretched around his cock as the head peeks out from over the waistband. Stiles stares at the way the fabric settles around Derek’s balls, how they hug Derek so tight Stiles can see _everything_.

All he wants to do is run his tongue over the shape of Derek’s cock, feel Derek and the scrap of fabric under his tongue, make it wet with his spit.

And that’s exactly what he does.

But only after he wrenches himself from his place on the floor and pushes at Derek until they’re walking to the bedroom and Derek flops down on the bed, legs spread open.

Stiles doesn’t know what to do with himself for a moment so he just kind of _stares_.

A lot.

Because Derek is the best fucking thing that’s ever happened to him.

And he knows this is not the moment to tear up and get all fucking emotional about their relationship when he has Derek all sprawled out in front of him, hard and wanting, but he can’t fucking help it.

Because Derek is _his_ and Derek _gets him_ and Derek is laying here in a pair of red fucking lace panties just because Stiles _asked_ him to.

So Stiles is going to make this fucking _amazing_ for him.

Mostly because he doesn’t think Derek will like the idea of Stiles getting his named tattooed on his skin at this stage of their relationship.

Stiles strips to only his boxers without taking his eyes off of Derek and settles between his legs. He runs his hands up and down Derek’s thighs, scratching his nails slightly on the inner side before following the path with his mouth, Derek’s breathing coming a little faster as he moves. He kiss and nips at the tender skin there, not forcing Derek’s hips down when he arches up, looking for friction.

He loves how fucking _eager_ Derek is while they’re in bed, how he’s never afraid to show what he wants and how bad he wants it.

Stiles can see the wet dark patch of fabric from where Derek is leaking – precome dripping from his stomach down to the panties -, and he moves from Derek’s thighs to nuzzle at his balls and mouth over the shape of him under the lace, making Derek groan and push his hips up in Stiles’ face.

Stiles chuckles and moves to run his tongue over the underside of Derek’s cock over the fabric, sucking through it and having to palm himself when Derek makes this little choked-up sound at the back of his throat.

He _lives_ to hear Derek sound like that, like Stiles fucking _ruined_ him - _is_ ruining him.

“Stiles,” Derek pants, spreading his legs wider. “Get a move on.”

“You can’t rush perfection,” Stiles says, biting down at Derek’s hip.

“I’ll give you perfect-” the words die out in Derek’s mouth as Stiles licks at the tip of Derek’s cock, tasting the precome gathered there.

Stiles pulls back and gives Derek’s hip a tap.

“Turn around for me,” Stiles says, his voice low and a little bit hoarse.

Derek does as he’s told, and now Stiles has a full view of Derek’s ass covered in red lace. He doesn’t know whether to come in his fucking boxers right then or weep in front of the perfection that is Derek Hale’s ass.

He settles for running his fingers through the legs of the panties, memorizing the feel of it under his hands and the look of it over Derek’s skin. He tugs the fabric down until past Derek’s ass cheeks and has to laugh when Derek wiggles his ass into his face.

“So fucking eager, fucking hell,” Stiles murmurs, biting down lightly at Derek’s left cheek.

“You’d be too if it was _my_ tongue up _your_ ass,” and Derek sounds so fucking _broken_ right then all Stiles can do give him whatever the fuck he wants.

Stiles doesn’t waste any time as he spreads him apart with his fingers and runs his tongue over Derek’s hole, pulling back to blow air over it and watch as Derek squirms.

Take _that_ , asshole.

He goes back to it, licking him open and pressing his tongue inside of him, enjoying the feeling of _hot_ and _tight_ and _Derek_ around him. He adds a finger to it, listening to Derek’s broken gasps and moans and feeling the way he’s rutting against the mattress, dick still inside the panties, as Stiles fucks him with his finger and tongue.

There’s spit running down Stiles’ hand, but he doesn’t really give a fuck as he crooks his finger just right one, two, three, four times and Derek’s entire body tenses as he fucking _howls_ Stiles’ name and comes all over himself.

Stiles barely has time to cover Derek back up, climb up on the bed until he’s kneeling over Derek, push his own boxers down, get his spit slicked hand around himself and give a couple of hard and fast pumps on his dick until he’s coming all over Derek’s red lace covered ass.

He feels fucking _wrecked_ as he flops down on the bed by Derek’s side, breathing hard and not really being able to wrap his mind around what just happened.

He’s pretty sure this is the hottest thing that he’s ever done, and that includes the first time Derek blew him on his office two weeks after he got his tattoo while everyone was still working in the shop.

Stiles turns to look back at Derek, who has his cheeks flushed, mouth part opened, and a dazed look on his face.

Stiles’ brain immediately goes _oh hey, I did this to him_ and he smiles smugly to himself.

It doesn’t take long for Derek to start shifting on the bed, the way he moves making the wet stain in front of the panties visible to Stiles.

“Did you really have to come on it?” Derek asks, his voice still kind of hoarse from sex, looking over his shoulder and down at his ass.

Stiles just stares down at the way the come is cooling over the fabric, how damp and dark and wet and _dirty_ it makes it look. They _ruined_ the panties, the pretty lace, the red color, and Stiles _loves_ it - loves it how they made it _theirs_.

“Yeah,” Stiles nods. “I really did.”

Derek just rolls his eyes at him, and then frowns.

“Is this why Laura and Lydia spent the entire week texting me about what I thought of red laced table cloths for Christmas’ decorations at the shop?”

Stiles covers his face in his hands and groans.

Because he fucking _knew it_.

-

Jackson chokes on his own spit when he gets home a day later to find Lydia standing in the kitchen and staring at a red velvet cake - the words _all hail the panties queen_ written on it - with a fond smile on her face.

**Author's Note:**

>  ~~1\. I AM ACCEPTING PROMPTS on this series;~~  
>  2\. and I'm going away for a month.
> 
> I only ever wrote a sequel to Thank You For My Sex Life and this story because my friend asked me to and gave me an idea of what she wanted it to be.  
> So IF THERE'S ANYTHING YOU'D LIKE TO SEE ON STILINSKI CUSTOM CAKES, please leave a comment or hit me up on [tumblr](http://dylansmouth.tumblr.com) and tell me all about it.
> 
> Now, I'm going away for New Years and I don't know if I'll have the time to write anything new and post it - and if I do, I still don't know if my internet connection will be the actual best or the actual worst - but I'll try my best to fill all your prompts if you guys leave some to me.  
> I'll be back in February, though, so you might expect more Cakes then! :D
> 
> A thanks to everyone who took the time to read this and my stories and I love you and I hope you have a lovely end of the year and ugh I love you one more time <3


End file.
